


Rogue

by Lady_Philosophical_Phoenix



Category: The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Gen, Slow Build, Warning: Offscreen death of an OFC child, off screen child abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-30 21:12:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12661521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Philosophical_Phoenix/pseuds/Lady_Philosophical_Phoenix
Summary: Harry Dresden is many things; but nobody's ever claimed he's self-aware. When one death brings the basis of his life down, he must learn what is truly important to him, and from that make a judgement on when to fight and when to bide his time. Because he will never forgive the Council for this - and he will never forget. The only question is, when resistance means instant death, what is he prepared to do?





	Rogue

**Author's Note:**

> It occurred to me, as I was reflecting on the series so far, that Dresden could be kind of an idiot as well as morally ambiguous. Sure, his choices look obvious when he's facing them, but in retrospect some of them were really, really dodgy. So I decided, partially because I need to practice realistic character development and partially because it was bugging the hell out of me, to write something where Dresden suffered something of a paradigm shift and wised up a little. Not enough to stop him making mistakes, but he's a little less stupid than before. 
> 
> I make no promises on frequent updates; I write as and when I feel like writing, and since I write a rough draft by hand before typing it up as I edit and rearrange (a process which usually manages to double the word count) it takes a while for me to get anything significant enough to post done. That said, constructive reviews and ideas tend to get my imagination churning with directions to include in future, so you can always use that to spur me on. ;)

The places I could reach on foot were limited; any car I got into now would suffer a quick and inglorious death, my magic straining to turn my helpless rage into something more tangible. I clung to the remnants of my control fiercely, though. Morgan was undoubtedly watching me closely after my display in the council chamber. I might as well be under the Doom of Damocles again, for all the tolerance the Council would have for any suspicious behaviour from me.

I set off through the streets in no particular direction, strolling past the houses with no care for the rain that was steadily soaking me. My mind was far away from the cold, lost in red-soaked memories recent enough that they might as well have been burned into my mind with the Sight. Arguments and counterarguments flew around my head like a storm, but no matter how I looked at it I couldn't understand the reasoning behind such a senseless, stupid execution. My blood simmered with fury at the thought, until time and the cold rain had leeched away the uncomfortable heat and with it, the desire to burn someone alive.

I stopped at a crossroads, noting absently that my wanderings had taken me into a nicer part of town. Not far down the road I could see a church, stained glass windows lit from the inside despite the late (early) hour. The sign outside proclaimed it to be St Mary of the Angels, and I felt a flicker of curiosity, the first emotion besides anger I'd felt in hours.

Working with Michael Carpenter, Knight of the Cross, on the few occasions when my wizardly business and his Knightly business coincided, had been a singular experience. The devout man was unlike anyone I'd ever encountered with complete faith in his God regardless of any hardships and utterly at peace with that, reflected in his soaring white cathedral of a soul, complete with heavenly choir. Moreover, he'd seen my soul while I'd seen his and he'd had a startling amount of faith in me ever since. Whatever he'd seen in me, (and I never asked) it had convinced him to trust me, beyond all reason. No one had ever had faith like that in me before -

( _except Ebenezer_ )

and I never quite knew how to react to it.

Michael had mentioned this church, I remembered, in one of his stories. St Mary of the Angels was where the Knight and his family went to church every Sunday. Despite myself, I took a step towards the stone structure. I wasn't a religious person, not at all - knowing God exists is different from believing in Him and I'd always had trouble with that second part - but I had sometimes wistfully wished for faith like Michael's, and the peace that came hand-in-hand with believing that everything would be alright.

I didn't really need to have faith in God to enjoy the peace that churches have all on their own, however, a peace made of stone walls and hallowed quiet, reinforced with the belief of the people who pray there. I found the tranquillity soothing.

The door didn't burn me when I pushed it open hesitantly, not that I'd truly expected it to - my morality was debatable but I was hardly a demon. Still, I felt like the events of the day should have marked me somehow, like the indelible stain on my soul was seeping into every aspect of my life.

I shuddered as I realised that I wanted that; not the stain on my soul or the sickening anger and guilt that had me swallowing back bile, but to remember the little girl who'd been executed for defending herself.

The Warden who'd executed her certainly wouldn't.

Slipping inside quietly, I shut the door behind me with a soft click before turning and walking into the main part of the church. Water dripped off my sodden clothes, but I paid it no mind beyond feeling vaguely guilty at the mess I was making.

A throat clearing behind me startled me out of my thoughts and I whirled around, reflexes on a hair-pin trigger with the constant threat of Morgan hanging over my head. The fact that I currently lacked both my staff and my blasting rod was all that saved the stranger from an unceremonious death. Instead I had my shield bracelet freed and ready in a blink.

We froze for a moment before I slowly lowered my arm, heart thumping in my chest. If I had been better armed, I'd have killed him - for being unfortunate enough to cross paths with me? I tried not to let the nausea I felt show.

The priest stood still for another beat, eyeing me thoughtfully but not unkindly. "I am Father Forthill." He finally said. "Is there something I can help you with?"

"Uh - no." I blurted out, voice hoarse. "I just -" I choked on the lump in my throat for a second and didn't continue, but something in my expression must have told the priest all he needed to know anyway, because his features smoothed into unobtrusive sympathy instead of wary kindness.

"Of course. Make yourself comfortable - would you like a hot drink? We have tea, coffee, hot chocolate or hot milk and honey, if you're interested." He gestured towards my sodden clothes.

"... Hot chocolate, thanks." I said quietly, baffled by his apparent ease with the situation but grateful nonetheless - my body was wracked with shivers by now, and if it weren't for my wizardly resistance I'd no doubt be on my way to a bad cold.

I shuffled down the aisle of the nave and stared up (and up) at the artwork decorating the church. It was certainly a sight to behold, and I felt the tension begin to drain out of me in the empty space even as numb hurt stirred. How could something beautiful and peaceful and light stand like this, for hundreds of years, while tiny inconsequential human lives came and went like the flicker of a candle?

Standing in the House of a God I knew existed but never really believed in, I viciously bit back the urge to spill out all my bitter anger, my recriminations and my guilt. Resisted the urge to rail and argue and scream my defiance. What would be the point? Nothing would change. I could dig my heels in and yell 'it's not fair' as loud as I liked and I would still have to go on; the rent wouldn't wait for me to care about paying it again, the Council wouldn't care about the effort it took me to restrain my fury, Murphy wouldn't care that my actions were constrained by rules and people I was forbidden from telling her about.

There was nothing I could do for that girl besides avoid getting killed for her. She was dead, and nothing would bring her back.

Slumping down onto one of the pews, I rested my head in my hands. It had been me in her situation once. Me who'd burned my father-figure alive in self-defence. What had made me any worthier of life than her?

Nothing. The only thing I'd had that she hadn't, in the end, was Elaine's death on my conscience and Ebenezer on my side.

I swallowed back the bitter betrayal and tightened my fingers in my hair. "What can I do?" I whispered. That was the sort of person I was, whether I was about to rush into a fight on instinct or make an impulsive decision, and it was tearing me apart now when I wanted nothing more than to make it better but had no way of doing so.

I sat there for a few minutes just trying not to think, before a half-remembered conversation came back to me as I remembered Michael talking about one of the services here. Standing, I cast my eyes about until I spotted what I was looking for. On a wooden table sat candles, some already standing and lit while others were stacked neatly in a box.

 _Votive Candles,_ as the sign proclaimed them. I knew what they were, for all that wizardry and Christianity didn't tend to cross paths. _(Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.)_ If you had someone you wanted to pray for, you lit a candle for them. I hesitated - I was decidedly not Christian - before picking up a candle myself and rolling it between my fingers. Michael was always insistent that God looked no worse upon me than anyone else, so maybe this would be okay. In any case, it wasn't for me and I didn't think He'd mind if I lit one for a child.

The candle flared as I lit it before settling into a steady flicker. I set the candle down on the table, a little apart from the others, and stepped back.

Footsteps dragged me out of my reverie as Father Forthill came back. I looked up at him tiredly as he approached and accepted the steaming mug with muttered thanks. Turning away from the candles, I sat in one of the pews, the priest following me with his own drink.

"You're surprisingly calm about this." I broke the silence once half my hot chocolate was gone and the shivers had abated a little.

"What's so surprising about it? Plenty of people come to the church in dire need of help, and they don't all adhere to daylight hours. There's a reason there's always someone on duty at night." The priest countered gently.

I snorted in agreement - people never seemed to keep to convenient hours when they needed me. "What do people need from the church at this hour?"

"God. Peace. A willing ear and someone to understand their trials." Forthill answered amiably. "Why did you come here?"

"I was walking past." I shrugged.

"In the early hours of the morning?" Forthill asked, gently calling me out on my pathetic excuse. I pulled a face at him.

"I wasn't paying attention to where I was going, I just saw it and remembered some stories a friend told me." I sighed and clutched my mug tighter.

"Something's troubling you." The priest said, the statement not said with grating care but knowledge and empathy.

I debated whether to answer, before finally giving in to the inevitable. "Someone died."

"I'm sorry for your loss."

"No - just." I stopped, frustrated. "I didn't know her, I'd never seen her before today, but - I saw her die. It was ... unjust, I suppose."

"People dying before their time often seems unfair." Father Forthill said.

"I tried to stop it, but I wasn't allowed to interfere." I muttered, glaring into my mug.

"Allowed?" The priest questioned, still kind but with a hint of steel. "Rules imposed on us might seem immutable but it's important to remember that we still choose to follow them."

"I meant I was physically restrained." I said sharply, not fond of the implication that I valued my life above hers. "The people who killed her want me dead and would use any excuse to justify that, so a _friend_ of mine restrained me to stop me from giving them a reason." My voice rose sharply till I was nearly yelling, my words echoing around the church.

"Harry?" A familiar voice - not the priest - echoed from behind me and I snapped my mouth shut, twisting in my seat to face whoever had managed to find me here. Instead of a Warden or Ebenezer like I'd anticipated, though, I saw someone unexpected.

"Michael?" I questioned, disbelieving. Michael was a regular family guy who worked nine to five, had more than 2.5 kids, a wife and a house with a white picket fence and, incidentally, worked odd hours as a Knight of the Cross, the Fist of God, a holy instrument of His Justice. It wasn't unusual to see him in a church; in the early hours of the morning, considerably more unusual.

"It's good to see you again." Michael said, then looked me over. "Though I seem to have caught you at a bad time."

"I've had a bad day. How much of that did you hear?"

Michael grimaced apologetically. "More than I'd meant to. I'm sorry, Harry."

I waved a hand in dismissal. "Doesn't matter."

"So, you two are acquainted?" Forthill questioned.

"We've worked together when our duties coincide. Father, this is Harry Dresden, the wizard." Michael said. "Together we were able to face foes we couldn't have fought alone."

"Well, it's good to hear that Michael has backup doing His work should it be necessary." Father Forthill said warmly. "Is that why you're here, Michael, or has something else occurred?"

"All's quiet." Michael reassured. "I felt an urge to come here but no need to pick up Amoracchius."

"That's good." Forthill smiled, picking up our discarded mugs and standing. "Then I believe I shall leave you to your own devices, if there is nothing further I can assist you with." Quiet footsteps indicated the priests' retreat, and I kept my eyes fixed on my hands as Michael sat down beside me.

"This girl," He began. "She was a wizard?"

"Not yet." I answered, throat tight. "Untrained. Didn't even know she had magic before she used it to break one of the Laws."

"The White Council executed her?" I nodded, still not looking at him. "What did she do?"

I laughed humourlessly. "She burned her father alive after he beat her."

Michael stiffened beside me, horror almost palpable. "I - Harry -"

"You haven't even heard the worst part." I interrupted. "She was twelve, Michael."

He was speechless for a couple of minutes, breathing ragged, before he placed a hand on my shoulder comfortingly. I risked a glance at him; usually calm, if sorrowful, in the face of tragedy, now he looked older than he should, a hint of steel anger beneath the kindness he was offering me.

Michael was taking it harder than I'd honestly expected; I'd never seen anything that could truly rattle him, until now. Perhaps I should have considered the fact that he was a father himself before I started telling him about little girls dying.

"It wasn't your fault, Harry." He insisted firmly, conviction in every line of his face. "You couldn't do anything to change it."

"Couldn't I?" I asked, not bitterly but honestly wanting to know the answer. "Not right that second, perhaps, but Michael - it's not like the Council executing Warlocks is new. I've seen a few executions, hell's bells, they nearly executed me. This isn't any different from that, except -"

"This was a child." Michael finished for me when I couldn't get the words out.

I breathed out slowly and continued. "I couldn't do anything about it because she was already in Warden custody, but - that doesn't mean there was nothing I could have done to change it, ever, if I'd known."

"But you didn't know." Michael said quietly. "You can't be omniscient, Harry."

"Yeah, that's not my job." I snorted quietly before shaking my head and returning to the subject at hand. "I know, but - it shouldn't be surprising that the Council would execute a child if they thought it was necessary." I thought of Ebenezer and my hands balled into fists. "But it was, because I never thought about the people the Council were executing; I never dared to because I knew I'd hate it and I couldn't afford to step out of line with the Doom of Damocles hanging over me. And because I wouldn't see what was happening, I couldn't see the possibility of something worse."

"I see." Michael said sadly. "It's not the Council you're angry with; it's yourself."

I bit back a surprised denial and thought about what he said, before nodding reluctantly. "I'm plenty angry with them, but - it's not like they ever pretended to be warm and fuzzy. I've only got myself to blame for never choosing to see what they never bothered to hide." It made me feel impossibly young, like I was six again and learning that not all people are nice for the first time. I really, really, should have known better than to be surprised at who the Council would execute. "I feel like if I hadn't hidden from things I hated but couldn't change, I might have done something differently and maybe she'd still be alive."

"Done what differently?" Michael asked. "Harry, you can't take on guilt for every life you see lost."

Kim Delaney sprang to mind, and I felt (more than) a pang of grief for her. That death was inescapably my fault, as were the others who died when the loup-garou went on a rampage in Chicago's Special Investigations office. Not to mention that the loup-garou was, most of the time, a man trying to live with a horrible curse who died for my mistake, leaving a fiancée behind to mourn her loss along with the friends and family of the policemen who died.

I'd affected so many lives in such a horrible way with that decision, and it was all completely avoidable. I'd seen what my on-again off-again apprentice wanted to know and immediately refused to help, rather than thinking to ask why. If I had just asked her to explain what she needed it for then maybe MacFinn's plight would have moved me to help myself if I still felt I couldn't trust her with the knowledge. Instead I'd seen the (negative) possibilities of what she was asking me for and declined to have anything else to do with it.

"Do you know how many Warlocks break the Laws of Magic full knowing of the consequences, both what the White Council will do to them if caught and how it will twist their mind?" I asked, not waiting for Michael to give an answer. "A little less than thirty percent. That's roughly twenty seven out of a hundred people who choose to become a Warlock voluntarily, knowing about all possible options. Three percent become Warlocks as thralls with no free will serving another. Fifteen percent break a Law under duress, as I did, such as self-defence or otherwise in fear for their life. Ten percent broke a Law because they dismissed the dangers of black magic and the way it can twist a person, believing it to be a fairy tale told to keep them away from the more powerful magic, or variations thereof. The remaining forty-five percent - that's almost half of all Warlocks - broke the Laws because _they didn't know what the Laws were_." I stopped for a moment and took a shaking breath. "It's true that some of the final forty-five percent would still have broken the Laws even if they'd known what they were, but a lot of them wouldn't. Maybe there was no way I could ever save her, but I'd certainly have a better chance if I'd done something about those percentages rather than pretending that all Warlocks are evil, full stop, regardless of the choices that led them there."

"You're starting to see." Michael said, and I shot him a look.

"See what?"

"That it isn't just your actions in one moment that can change a life - not just the outcome of one battle. You're a good person, Harry, don't mistake me - but you're a man of action. The most important moments, for you, is when you do battle to preserve a life, or rid the world of an evil. And I won't deny that those moments are important, otherwise there would be no need for the Knights, but they are just some moments of many. The world is much more than a battle - each person, on each side, has hundreds of thousands of memories and choices that lead them to where they stand today, and changing even one of those moments can change where they stand in the future. That's the true purpose of the Knights."

"Free will." I murmured, and Michael nodded next to me, looking pleased.

"Exactly. We give them a choice, a chance to repent, and if they refuse, then we do battle in the defence of the innocent."

"And you're applying that to the Warlocks." I finished.

"Aren't you?" Michael asked, curious. "You're saying that the Warlocks might have been different if they'd had a choice; that they didn't have the information they needed to make a true, informed decision and that you regret not working to give them that because of your fear and perceived powerlessness. Sounds the same to me."

"Yeah, but I didn't actually change anything; I just realised that it should be changed." I said exasperated.

"That's the first step to solving any problem." Michael countered lightly. "Harry, we all have our past mistakes; things we realised we should have done differently, with hindsight. The important part is to remember those lessons. Did I ever tell you about Sanya?" I shook my head mutely. "He used to be one of the Blackened Denarius."

"Used to be?" I questioned.

"He overheard two of the other Denarius talking about corrupting him and he realised that they had been manipulating him all along, so he threw the coin away and was later found by Shiro, wielder of Fidelacchius. Sanya himself now wields Esperacchius."

I would admit to gaping a little. "So Sanya used to be a host for a fallen angel, and now he's a Knight of the Cross?"

Michael nodded, looking pleased. "Yes. Does that help satisfy your concerns about your mistakes?"

I dropped my head into my hands, feeling a wry sort of amusement despite everything. "Well, at least it's possible to come back from worse."

"That's the spirit." Michael said. "I know you're not as convinced in His help as I am, but there is always a path to the light if you need it."

"You know my opinion, Michael." I shot him a tired look. "I really don't think he's going to be extending a helping hand to me any time soon."

Michael stared at me incredulously. "Harry, what exactly do you think this was?" When I stared at him blankly he sighed exasperatedly. "Harry, I came here in the middle of the night because I felt that here was where I was needed. You know, that sense we Knights get when we need to do His work?"

"Uh." I said intelligently. Michael stared at me flatly. "It didn't even occur to you, did it, that I might be here for you? What goes through your head every time something happens that could be construed as divine interference on your behalf, exactly?"

"... Does not compute?" I offered weakly.

Michael sighed, but the corners of his mouth twitched up slightly. Pulling himself to his feet, the Knight raised an expectant eyebrow at me. "Come on. You can stay at mine for tonight, it's closer and you're in no state to walk across half the city like that."

I looked down at myself and winced. The hot chocolate had long since ceased to warm me and now it looked like my fingers were turning blue. I really didn't want to go to Michael's, the constant low-grade hostility from Charity was grating, but - I glanced back up at the Fist of God - it didn't really look like I was going to have much of a choice. "Yeah, alright, but only if you promise to keep your wife from eviscerating me."

"She's hardly that bad, Harry." Michael chastened lightly as I pulled myself up from the pew with difficulty.

"Yeah? When was the last time she looked like she wanted to kill you?" I snarked back as we made our way down the aisle towards the exit.

"I don't recall that she ever looked at me like that." Michael said, sounding faintly amused and - dare I say it - just a trace smug.

I shook my head at the unfairness as I followed him without further complaint. Just before we left the nave, though, I cast one long glance back at the beautifully decorated church.

I don't believe in Him. I know that He exists, but that isn't the same thing as having faith that He will care for me as he does all others. Still, in the back of my mind I allowed myself to be grateful that He had, apparently, sent Michael to me.

(Resolutely, I refused to consider it a prayer of thanks.)

All in all, it was a better end than I expected to a truly terrible day, I mused as I saw the votive candle I'd lit earlier still burning brightly for one moment before the doors closed behind me.


End file.
